


Howling

by WildHarlow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual post-cannon, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Post-Battle of Winterfell | Final Battle Against the White Walkers, Romance, Sex, little bird, romantic sex, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23538745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildHarlow/pseuds/WildHarlow
Summary: The last thing he ever needed had finally happened.There she’d been, like a beacon of fire. She had red hair descending all around her and a gaze that seared his core.Sansa was a burning river.Sandor hated fire, almost more than he hated his brother.But right now, he was like a moth to a flame.(A post-Battle of Winterfell fic that will expand into the end of GoT/beyond for a plot focused on Sansa and Sandor.)**UNFINISHED BUT WITH UPDATES TO COME!**
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane, The Hound/Sansa Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 140





	1. Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Long time reader of this site, first time poster. This is my second fic ever (the first one was 10 years ago, so I don’t even know if that counts lol). I love GoT and I LOVE sansan.  
> Forgive me if this first chapter is clunky, it took a moment to set the scene.  
> Is anyone else returning to their unfinished fics during this quarantine? In any case, I really hope this WIP is enjoyable. Would love to hear your thoughts and to connect with any other sansan shippers!

“Without Littlefinger and Ramsey, and all the rest, I would have stayed a Little Bird all my life.”  
  
As she broke her hand from his, swiftly getting up from the table, Sansa’s pulse raced. She turned, quickly, and didn’t look back as she exited the dining hall.

 _What was she thinking?_ A sharp exhale escaped from her, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. Her pace quickened, the boisterous laughs of the party fading. Hearing his voice had brought back unshakable memories of her time in Kingslanding. It was as though pieces of that time, however, were doused in a new light.  
Her fingers were curled, nails digging into her palms.  
What had seemed like a confusing array of events were suddenly much more clear. The night of the Blackwater, he had very purposefully awaited in her chambers. Long after, Sansa had many dreams about that exchange, some of which even ended in a heated kiss. She’d brushed these off ages ago. And yet, just now, looking into his eyes _…holding his hand…_

Sansa rounded a corner, the feeling inside of her swelling. Her stomach flipped with butterflies, and her heart throbbed in her chest. It overwhelmed her.  
_Too much wine,_ she naively thought, brushing the dizziness off. Sansa almost tripped over her skirts, and her fingers pressed to the cold wall for support. She halted her hurried gait. Suddenly, the vision of that imagined kiss took over. His hands rough, mouth fervent. Never had she felt such an overpowering wave of physical need.

 _What is that beard like upon my skin?_ _What does he sound like when he moans?_

She’d never felt this for a man...or a _Hound_.

She tightened the loop of her heavy coat as the brisk night air approached. Sansa welcomed the raw feel of the outdoors on her face – it was familiar. The beads of sweat that had doused her forehead disappeared. The temperature drop wiped away the strange burning from her cheeks. Even though her breath puffed in clouds before her, the bitterness was comforting. The snow crunching beneath her feet was calming. As she approached the shroud of The Godswood, she felt at peace again. Everything was silent here.

Sansa threw a glance over her shoulder, her sharp eyes making sure she was alone. In this regard, she was more like her father than she ever knew. As Lord Stark did, she came to the Godswood when she wanted to be reminded of her family, of her sorrow, and of those she had once loved. She clasped a gloved hand to the ivory bark of a nearby tree, and stood still.

_“There is only one thing that will make me happy.”_

Sandor was leaving in the morning. Maybe sooner. Instead of denial, the Stark was filled with a sudden panic. Given the circumstances at hand, and his plan, the odds seemed stacked against Clegane. Had she wrecked their final goodbye? The thicket of trees before her was too dark to see through, but she could feel the soft snow starting to fall again.

 _No_ , she thought.  
There was no need for all of this strange decorum and unsaid business. He had felt it too; Sansa saw it in that single moment, when he contemplated his desire for her to have left with him that terrible night. What a different thing their lives could have been if that moment was changed. Somehow, even outside, her cheeks burned again. Sansa silently thanked the ancient trees for their clarity, and headed back to the castle.  
  


* * *

As he watched her disappear into the dark hall, Sandor let out a single incredulous laugh.

 _“Hounds,”_ she had said, with the greatest smirk he’d ever seen.  
  
He wondered if she had felt him tense when she put her small, pale hand on his weathered skin.  
  
He clutched his fingers tight, throwing a glance around the huge room. Everyone seemed either deep in conversation, or too drunk for their own good. _A sure time to get the hell out.  
_ He shoved the bench away as he stood, took one last swig from his goblet, and then ducked out a nearby exit. The girl who had tried to win his attention snapped her gaze from Podrick for the briefest second, but then went back to giggling in his lap.

The Hound was gone.

* * *

She had not expected to see the familiar figure posted up outside her bedchamber, but Sansa’s heart suddenly leapt when she did. It was difficult to find this part of the tower unless you knew exactly where you were going, or what you were looking for. Clearly, he had.  
Her pace slowed, but her pulse quickened as her gaze met that of The Hound’s. Even in the flickering light of dim wall torches, she could see that something was different. He straightened himself from his lean against the stone wall, and was the first to speak.

“Ya’ left before I could explain.”

The Stark’s lips parted, processing before responding.  
  
_What does he mean? I am the one with something to explain._

Sandor noticed how she was clutching outdoor gloves, twisting them slightly in her grip. Sansa inhaled a brave breath, and set her motions to quickly opening the heavy chamber door. For a moment, he figured she meant to leave him out there like that. He couldn’t blame the girl, really. Halfway in the entrance, she turned with intense eyes back to him. Even though his intimidating frame was as tall as the door itself, his expression was somehow vulnerable – it made her shiver.

“Perhaps you should come inside and explain, then.”

Although the words were cool and even, the look Sansa gave him was sharp before she turned and walked into the room. Feeling incredulous, Sandor followed.


	2. A Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re right,” he agreed, and her eyes widened. “You’re a Wolf. And dogs don’t fuck with wolves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While my chapters are generally short, this one is even shorter because the cutoff just felt right leading onto what will be the third.  
> Generally speaking, this smidge is a buildup to something quite fun.  
> Enjoy!

The light of her room was more subdued than the hall, with only candles lit and spread throughout the interior. Without the fire kindled, this would normally be too cold - _But not for a Stark girl_ , the Hound thought, as he gently closed the door behind him.

Sansa had shed of her outdoor cloak, and set the gloves on what appeared to be a sewing table. Doing her best to conceal her racing breath, she perched at the bed’s side, and then looked at him.

“Please,” her pale hand motioned to the chair at her desk.

Sandor drew a breath, and went to his appointed seat. He tried to keep from looking at her belongings all around the room, though he wanted to. It felt too personal. Here he was in _Little Bird’s bedroom_. If he let himself think on it, _fuck_ , he would surely lose this moment.

Sansa shifted uncertainly and she folded her hands in her lap.

“What was it that you needed to explain?” The question was slow as it left her lips, hesitant.

The Hound leaned forward in the wooden chair, which was nearly too small for his enormous frame.

“Lady Stark…” It immediately felt odd to call her that, and Sansa’s expression drew confusion with the sudden formality.

He sighed, then tried again, “You knew what I meant, about what I have to do.”

She nodded, very slowly. “I believe I do.”

Sansa recalled a few days ago, when Brianne had arrived to escort her to the courtyard. The guard was complaining about _that bastard dog,_ and how she couldn’t believe he was back.

“If he fairs this,” Brianne had said, “he won’t survive The Mountain.”

At the time, the words were somewhat lost on the Stark. She’d been filled with a strange and deafening preoccupation at the thought of seeing this returned man. A man she thought she’d never see again. A man who called her _Little Bird_.

Sandor diverted his gaze to the floor.

“Well, I don’t exactly plan to return.”

The words dropped, and so did her stomach. Surely, she’d thought things had changed after the events of the night prior. They were lucky they were there to have this conversation at all.

After years apart, only to be reunited amid more chaos, this suddenly felt final. With a surge of panic, she realized that this time, he meant he was leaving to certain death _._

 _Fuck, what have you done?_ Sandor could see the awareness spreading over the girl’s furrowing brow, her mouth dropping open slightly. He’d said too much. He shouldn’t have burdened her with this. He shifted in the chair and then, shaking his head, stood up. _You idiot,_ Clegane thought, pressing his lips into a tight frown as he headed back for the exit.

“Wait!”

Sansa had urgently cut across the room, halfway between her bed and where the large man now stood, right at the arched door. He didn’t turn around, but he stopped.

“You…can’t.” It was all she could think of in the moment, as her mind was racing.

“I can. And I will.” Sandor’s reply was curt, all the vulnerability of before gone.

His response stung, but she was doing her best to put logic first now.

“I know about what you did for Arya,” Sansa blurted. The Hound’s head turned to glance over his hulking shoulder, just briefly. She took that as a sign to continue.

“I know that you protected her, all that time. You saved her.”

He scoffed, a hand now touching the door handle.

“That’s what you think? I was _using_ her fer your aunt’s money. Could’a been a fuckin’ goat instead of a girl, for all I care.”

“I don’t believe you.” She was defiant now, shaking her head.

“Ya should.”

He was pushing her away. That had to be it. They had gotten too close, more close than he’d been with someone before. Just two hours ago, they had even held hands…

“I remember what you said to me,” Sansa took a slow step towards him, “that night of the Blackwater Bay. This isn’t the first time you’ve come to my bedchamber.”

She heard a deep breath draw from him as they both remembered that night. Never had they discussed how he pleaded her to go, how he even wanted her to sing.

Suddenly, the Hound turned back to her. His dark hair hung in tresses around his face, only partly lit in the candlelight. His expression was flat.

“I was drunk.” He offered it like an excuse.

Sansa, looking to his shadowy eyes, shook her head.

“You’re not now.”

“Aye. But you are.”

She had actually thought of that possibility earlier… but Sansa knew herself better than that by now. The way her breath trembled, and the piercing awareness of her heartbeat – this was something else entirely.

“No,” another step closer, “I am just not a Little Bird anymore.”

Sandor studied her face, though he knew he should not.

“You’re right,” he agreed, and her eyes widened. “You’re a Wolf. And dogs don’t fuck with wolves.” He said it with a dark chuckle, keeping his tone wry.

She moved closer, another step and they could touch. The contrast of her ivory skin to that laced black gown was stunning, the Hound thought, fleetingly. There was something in her now that he didn’t recognize, a flicker in those bright eyes. Sansa had a confidence about her that he had never met before. He thought how it must have come with time, with experience - with pain.

“Have you not pondered it?” Sansa asked, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “If I had gone away with you that night?” The question burned as it left her lips. Saying something aloud she’d imagined _for years_ felt so strange, but so freeing.

 _Of course_ he’d thought about it. He could have kept her from a world of hurt, he could have crushed the vile men who harmed her, he could have wrapped his arms around her waist…

Admittedly, there had been many nights where Sandor had stared into a black sky, thinking of that red hair, hoping that _fucking_ _twat_ Joffrey was not tormenting her. Traveling for so long with Arya didn’t help to lessen his thoughts of the sweet Northern girl.

Her chest was rising and falling with shallow breaths, and the only sound was the occasional crackle of a candle.

“If I was there, I would’ve tried to make things better for you ,” his deep voice cut the silence, “I just needed ya to know that, before I’m gone.”

The Sansa he once knew would have weltered up in tears at his words. She had worn her feelings on the outside – a trait that often gotten her in precarious situations. He recalled how it twisted him inside to see her tear-stained face as he’d wrapped her in his heavy white cloak, her fingers clutching to it. It angered him to think of of the other monsters who plagued her life, all while he’d run away. He didn’t deserve to be here, he didn’t earn this softness or the attention of a Lady.

This Sansa, standing before him now, simply examined his face with a hardened look. This Sansa took her time responding. He waited.

She took the last step, close enough that she could feel his breath. Without letting herself debate it, Sansa reached to his face. He didn’t move a muscle as her fingers brushed under his hair, softly touching where the scarred skin ran by his eye, and cheek.

“ _Sandor_ ,” she whispered his name, and he felt himself stop breathing. “I’m going to need more than that.”


	3. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He frowned, and it was the same way he had always looked at her, years ago in King’s Landing.
> 
> “You’ll regret this,” he warned her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it didn’t take me very long to get to sexual tension with these characters, lol. This chapter definitely contains some smut-with-plot happenings!

Without breaking their eyes, the large man reached for her hand, stopping it. His grip was solid, but not hurtful. He took his free hand slowly to her chin – so small in his fingers – and drew her closer. Sansa leaned into the motion eagerly. With their faces so near, he realized could smell hints of her soft clean hair.

_So this is the scent of real fire._

An energy radiated between them, hot and tense. It was as if the worry and sorrow Sansa had been carrying burned away when he reached for her, even if his expression was disapproval. For the first time in her life, the notion of intimacy thrilled her.

And suddenly, all at once: a kiss.   
It was as if the force that held them apart had at long last snapped. They pulled each other close, as though it would end any second. Her hand was on his bearded face, and his fingers tangled urgently in Sansa’s silky hair.   
They were both experienced in kissing, but neither had ever had the passion for one as they did now. As their lips met, her small frame pressed gently to his. The Hound leaned his back against the door, and he lost himself in the sweet taste of her mouth on his. The kiss deepened as he dropped her hand and grabbed her waist, jolting her body against his.

Sansa broke their wet lips with a gasp, shocked to suddenly feel her chest pushed onto his wide torso, and her hips against his.

“ _Fuck,_ I’m sorry,” he breathed raggedly. Shaking his head, he dropped his grip of her. The Hound knew he had to stop himself, before it was too late.  
She wanted to laugh at how he could say such a thing, her pulse pounding in her ears. The contact had electrified Sansa.

“Why did you stop?” She reached for his hands. He grabbed her wrists, hard this time. Sansa made a noise of surprise as Sandor held her roughly.

He swallowed hard, looking down at her candlelit face with the eyes of a wild dog.

“Do you think this would be pretty, girl?” He all but snarled at her now, his frustration with himself rising. “A mutilated dog, ruining you further before pissing off to die?”

“Please,” she whispered, “I don’t care, I don’t care.”

He frowned, and it was the same way he had always looked at her, years ago in King’s Landing.

“You’ll regret this,” he warned her.

“Let it be my choice.”

He could feel her shaking in his grip – not from fear, but in excitement.

“I am no gentle lord,” he cautioned with a tense jaw.

Again, the statement was more like a threat, and less like a ‘no’.

In his mind, the Lady of Winterfell would end up with some delicate knight in brandished armor after Cersei was finally defeated. He would be young and stunning, and the Stark would never think upon old ugly dogs again.

“I do not want a gentle lord,” Sansa’s brow was knitted, her voice concerned. “I want…”

“You want _what?”_

There was venom in his voice, and she felt it plunge into her heart. Her thoughts were racing. What _did_ Sansa want? How could she describe the dreams of him that startled her in the night for years on end? In what way would she explain picturing him every time she’d been made to kiss another man? How would she confess that she’d kept that white cloak all this time?

Her arms twisted in his grasp.

“I want to make my own decisions,” her voice was unwavering now. “ _You_ have always been my choice.”

She watched a flash of surprise cross his face, his fingers finally loosening around her wrists. The Hound let out a fuming sigh.

“It may hurt.” He was blunt, but he did not refuse her.

“It always has.”

Her reply was dark, but true; it angered Sandor. He knew it didn’t always _have_ to hurt. His words were just cautionary, coming from his experience in brothels past. A part of him instantly wanted to change that for Sansa – the same part of him that sought out her bedchamber in the first place.

“Fine.” He eyed her gruffly, wondering how long he could hold this front and keep himself from his own passions. His eyes lingered on her lips.

“ _Fine,_ ” Sansa repeated back at him, in agreement, but almost teasingly.

A magnetic moment passed as they glared at each other from a thin façade of irritation. Sandor’s wall of displeasure had tricked many, but would not fool the crimson-haired Stark. She left him at the entryway, and backed slowly until she was seated on her bed.

The Hound stifled a laugh. Of course she would have him come to her, she was a woman now – a wolf in waiting.

He wasted no time approaching her on her fur blankets. As he hovered closely, curling his lips to speak, Sansa snaked an arm out and grabbed the front of his tunic.

There were many things running through Sandor’s mind, but none of his concerns could top Sansa pulling him by his clothes. Although her strength was feeble compared to his, a simple tug was all it took to draw Sandor onto the bedding.  
He was careful not to put his weight upon her thin frame as he climbed onto the bed – practically climbing onto her. The mere thought of being above Sansa in this way stirred Sandor wildly. Filled with a frenzy, he dove to kiss her. He placed a hand on the mattress to steady himself, the other curled tightly around her back when their lips met.

Sansa shivered, her breath trembling as the warmth of his mouth impeded upon hers. It was the kiss she’d always thought of, the one she couldn’t shake from her imagination all these years. In that moment, it felt as though she was in one of her dreams again – the dreams that always ended too quickly: A disagreement, a heady kiss, and then…nothing. The thought of this ending panicked her. She grabbed hold of him wherever she could, gasping in the crush of his mouth. For now, she would choose to keep the flame between them lit - to hold this warmth a little longer.

She reached for the chain of her necklace, unlocking the clasp so it could be tossed aside. Next, she started on the woven center of her dress, pulling the laces so they’d loosen. Sansa reached for one of Sandor’s broad hands, and placed it on her chest - on the unraveling holds to her dress. Her pale blue eyes were locked on his dark gaze with a yearning that sent his blood ablaze.   
The Hound dipped his head into the crook of her neck, hot breath against her ivory collar as quickly, he undid the holdings of her black gown.   
She urgently shook the sleeves from her arms and slipped from the heavy fabric. His calloused fingers brushed Sansa’s bare ribs as he pulled the last of the dress apart. She reached for his hair, and pulled him up into another eager kiss. This one was messier, and became salacious when opened mouths allowed for their tongues to touch. His beard was rough on her cheeks, and yet she wanted more. A soft moan escaped her when his hand brushed against her now-bare abdomen, and Sandor growled lowly in response. He took her by the hips, and tossed her back so her head rested against the pillows. Her gown fell to the stone floor.

Sitting on his knees, he paused to admire Sansa.  
 _Gods,_ he had never seen anything so beautiful. Her hair had fallen from its previous style, now long waves of red past her shoulders. It was slightly disheveled from their activities, and he never realized such a thing could fill a man with a carnal need.   
Despite the thick and conservative nature of her dress, Sansa’s small clothes were made of pale, thin linen. The fabric cut just at her hipbones, and was snug across her breasts. All of her limbs and flat abdomen were now exposed. The way she looked at him was not with fear, or shame. It was with _desire_.

With her legs straight between his, he leaned down to meet her lips, and Sansa’s hands were undoing the clasps of his tunic between them. Quickly, he followed suit and did away with it.

Her eyes went to his chest when he lifted to shake off the tunic. Sansa’s mouth parted as she took in the sea of scars that adorned the _huge_ and muscled man before her. His past was written all over him, in chaotic dark lines and in pale raised skin. He was also covered in black thick hair that trailed down his brawny stomach, well past his defined hips. A heat grew between Sansa’s thighs as she thought about _what else_ lie beyond those hips.

Sandor didn’t give her any further to stare, as he leaned to kiss roughly at her neck, her collarbone, down to her chest. She put her hands in his sweaty hair and squirmed in delight at the teasing. In her moving, her leg caught against his complete hardness for the first time, and she was shocked. Likewise, Sandor felt the friction and groaned deeply.

His hands moved to the fabric around her chest, and with a glance back up to her, undid the small clamp holding it closed. Instantly, his weathered hands were on her bare breasts as they kissed lustfully.   
With no warning, Sandor moved one of his hands to between her legs, fingers dipping under the fabric of the small clothes there. Sansa cried out as he moved a pointer and middle finger vertically along her slickness.

“Sansa fucking Stark,” he taunted, lips against her ear, “wet for _me_.”

She felt his groin on her leg more than ever now, and was practically seeing stars while he stroked her below. Sansa fumbled between them until she felt the leather of his belt. With hasty hands, she managed to undo it. She started to tug down the fabric at his hips, and he stopped her.

The massive man stood from the bed, removing the britches until he unceremoniously stood bare in the candlelight. Her eyes flickered to the tremendous girth of his hardness, steeped in dark hair. Sansa remembered once overhearing chambermaids in Kings Landing joking about his size before – clearly they hadn’t meant his height.

Lost in her thoughts, she now realized he was pulling down her last undergarment. Instinctively, her knees buckled. His eyes flashed to her.

“Second thoughts?” His tone was joking, but he wouldn’t have been shocked if her choice of him ended here.

In response, she kicked off the small clothes, and opened her legs to him. Sansa couldn’t hide the smirk that came over her when she saw his reaction, reeling in the power the cheeky action had over the large man.   
With haste he was on top of her, and she felt his shaft press against her sex.

“Please,” her hands dragged across his chest, “do it.”

Strangely, he hesitated. The wild look in his eye had vanished. Sansa wasn’t sure what she saw when she looked up to search his face. The way he dogged her gaze was almost anguished. Before she could say anything else, his face was pressed in her shoulder, and he was sliding his length into her.   
It took a great deal of willpower, but Sandor did this very slowly. His inching was tender, when it easily could have been destructive. He clawed at the mattress, feeling her bloom all around him. He adjusted himself slightly, and Sansa hissed.

“Are you hurt?” He was staring down at her now, unexpected concern in his tone.

“N-no,” she stuttered, “this is good.”

With that, he proceeded to rock his hips into hers, setting things in motion. The feeling consumed Sansa. It was as though he filled every bit of her body. Her eyes fluttered as their kissing continued.

_Right now, there is nothing else._

She’d expected roughness where he was gentle, and pain where there was wetness, heat, and pleasure. Everything that led to them having sex had told her it would be fast and cruel, yet here he was - nipping at her ear and stroking her thighs.

Their pace increased, and she rolled her hips with his. Sansa was shocked when Sandor reached between them to place a thumb at the peak of her mound, rubbing there in circles. She moaned, feeling waves of heat shoot through her like wildfire.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

Watching her react to his pleasuring only brought The Hound closer to his own brink. When she shook with gratification as he pressed and rubbed her, he couldn’t take it any longer. He pulled himself out of her, and grabbed her hand. Guiding her, she wrapped it around his shaft. He moaned gutturally as his seed pooled hot onto her side.

Panting, he wiped the remains from her skin with a forgotten sock. Sansa’s mind took her to long ago, when he’d wiped blood from her lip – their first touch. That version of her would have never fathomed this.

He faced away from her, sitting with his feet on the cold floor. Sansa pulled the furs around her, sitting up in the shadows.

“Sandor?”

“Mmm?” He’d started reaching for his clothes. “When did that start? You callin’ me that, all the sudden.”

“Stay with me.”

He paused. There was a sigh as his shoulders sunk. Having only been with women he’d paid for, Sandor never encountered anything like this. He turned to look at her. He shouldn’t have.

The last thing he ever needed had finally happened. There she’d been, like a beacon of fire. She had red hair descending all around her and a gaze that seared his core. Sansa was a burning river.

Sandor hated fire, almost more than he hated his brother.

But right now, he was like a moth to a flame.

Without a word, he slid into the blankets next to her. Sansa slipped under his arm, a drowsiness fast approaching as she laid her cheek against his warm chest. It wasn’t long before she knew she was drifting.

In her last moment awake, she could have sworn she felt a kiss on her forehead.


	4. Snuffed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While there was uncertainty in the plans, she believed the worst of their battles were over. 
> 
> Still, a piece of her felt lost already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading so far, and for the lovely welcome to the site in general!   
> Get ready for lots of angst approaching in this fic lol.

The morning light was bleak.

She squinted at the rays of grey that filtered through the windows.  
There was a split second in waking where the state of her world was in limbo. It was the lightness of a leap, before a fall.

Like a strike of lightning, Sansa’s memory of the night before jumpstarted her heart. Her eyes widened with a gasp.

_Sandor._

She shot up in the bed, scanning her room. Her gloves still sat on the sewing table. She noticed there was no longer a tangle of clothes at the foot of the bed. Instead, her black dress laid on the desk chair. All of her candles had been put out, long enough ago for the smell of smoke to have disappeared completely.

She was alone.

* * *

The castle halls were bustling.

Many soldiers were still being tended too, and the population of their guests had increased greatly in the past week.

_That was real,_ Sansa told herself as she made her way down a staircase. _He was with me._

She peeked into the dining hall as she passed it – hardly anyone sat at the benches. A flock of maidens were grouped in a corner, whispering. Among them, Sansa recognized the brunette who had made her pass at Sandor last night. The girl looked up at her, and quickly Sansa turned away.

After the tense strategy meeting, she walked with her siblings in secret to the Godswood. Passing through the gates, Sansa looked to the courtyard. None of the men working were as tall as the one she was hoping to see.

She told Jon how they needed to be careful. She and Arya were wary of the Dragon Queen and her true motivations. It was worrisome to know her brother was so bewitched by the Targaryen – it was clearly influencing his judgement.  
Bran sat stoic, silent, until:

“It’s your choice.”

Jon made them swear to never speak of it.

As they disbanded, Sansa felt numb. It wasn’t shock, but she was still processing what had happened. It was like a thread had been unraveled that she didn’t know even existed. He was the rightful heir, but he did not want to be? A chill blew in the wind as clouds continued to shroud the sun.

Still mulling over the new information, she hadn’t gone back to the castle. With red hair blowing in the cold gusts, Sansa now stood outside the stables. From the yard, one of the stable boys bowed his head to her, and then continued pulling nails from horseshoes. She lifted her skirts as she stepped into the hall of the barn, the overpowering smell of hay and mud hitting her. Her heart raced as she looked to the faces of the elegant creatures in the stalls – a brown mare, a young colt, a white stallion – but the great black beast she had anticipated was nowhere to be found.

The first time she had seen Stranger was here in Winterfell. He came with King Baratheon’s fleet, the most towering ebony brute she’d ever witnessed. Atop the horse had sat a man in a helmet - a helmet sculpted like the face of a snarling hound.

She felt something welling in her throat. Sandor was nowhere to be seen, and his steed was not in the barn. This could only mean one thing.

“Sansa?” Arya peered in the doorway at her, head tilted.

Sansa swallowed, “What are you doing here?”

Arya shrugged, taking a lazy step into the stable. “Saw you were headed this way. Wondered why.”

The older Stark paused, and then she turned her head away. When her muscles clenched, she could feel a soreness in her thighs. He had gripped her so tightly, and pressed so deep. Sansa let the burn radiate, to remind herself it was real.

“Have you seen…Sandor Clegane anywhere today?” His name caught in her mouth as she said it, and she hoped Arya would not notice.

“Why?” Her sister placed her hands on her hips with annoyance, “Did he leave without me? The bastard. I told him to wait.”

“What?” Sansa spun around, and Arya’s arms dropped back to her sides when she saw the upset written on her face.

“Oh,” her voice was more subdued, “he said was leaving, late last night. I’d left Gendry, and saw him in a corridor. I told him I am going, for Cersei, and that we should leave here today.” Arya shook her head, “Hound didn’t say a word. Don’t know what he was doing in those halls, anyway.”

A hot rush filled Sansa, standing there in the cold barn.

_Leaving me_ , she realized. _He was leaving me._

Angry tears began filling her vision, as his words rang in her mind:

_“You’ll regret this.”_

Arya came closer, her brow drawn together in concern.

“I should have known,” Sansa nodded, a tear letting loose from her eyes, “I should have listened.” It was hitting her now, and the pain in her thighs made her feel weak. Arya placed a hand on her arm.

“Does anyone else know?”

Sansa shook her head in response, wiping her face. More tears came, and it left her frustrated. He had come to her room, his hands held her tight, he kissed her so eagerly.

And now he was gone.

“I can catch up with him, probably. Old dog doesn’t know these backroads like I do,” Arya offered, a hand still on her arm for comfort. “I’ll find him.”

Sansa looked at her little sister. With no questions, Arya was was consoling her on the loss of a man she’d never truly had. No less, a man that had abducted the girl for the price on her head.   
A long time ago, the siblings never got along. The girls had been too different in their interest, and it drove them apart. It seemed so silly in hindsight, for all they’d been though. With a sob, she reached out and pulled Arya into an embrace. Arya hugged her tightly back.

* * *

Evening had approached without a warning, or a welcome.

By the time Jon was readying to leave, Arya was long gone. Sansa had watched from above the courtyard as she headed from the castle hours ago. The figure of her horse disappeared into the cover of the forest, taking Sansa’s secret with it.

The screeches of dragons were distant now, and the yards were emptying. Sansa did not have faith in Daenerys, but there was some reassurance that came after her discussion with Tyrion. While there was uncertainty in the plans, she believed the worst of their battles were over.

Still, a piece of her felt lost already.

Darkness crept over the horizon. It stole the glimmer of possibility, and pooled shadows from the corners of the castle. Night brought with it a stillness.

Oddly, Sansa had not seen Brienne for hours. She thought of the Gold-Handed Lannister, who nodded at her politely this morning, and figured why.

With everyone gone, the silence was like holding a sudden breath. It became the feeling of being dipped underwater, with only a second to realize as your face submerges. It felt like a hand to the neck, when you gasp as the fingers squeeze.

There was no breathing room left as she faced her bedroom door.

It felt heavier than usual, the swing taking an effort to produce. A handmaiden had offered to ready the chamber for her, to which Sansa refused.

One by one, lighting the candles, she found herself stopping after less than half. The flames didn’t bring her the warmth she was looking for. She would not find it in the fireplace, or the furs.

As the crafter of her dress, she undid it with skilled hands, her fingers knowing every knot and lace.

Sansa wished she knew the mountains of his muscles the same way. If only she’d had the chance to memorize a map of the aged wounds, the curled hair, even the freckles atop his shoulders. The memory was fading already.

Her body was begging her to rest, nearly collapsing as she slipped beneath the furs. It was then that Sansa could smell him, there in the dip of her pillow. It was musk, the sweat of his brow, and the snow that had dried in his hair.

She clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound that escaped her.

The night of Blackwater Bay, the windows lit his face with bursts of unnatural green flames, but his eyes were dark pools.

_“No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”_

As she clutched her blankets, hot tears wetting her hair, she couldn’t help but to feel pain at the thought.

He’d hurt her in a way no one had before.


	5. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a Stark in Winterfell, even if she was a shell. Even if she was a ghost.

It had been weeks since that night, in the dark stone tower, when he confirmed it.

Sansa remembered his hand catching hers, and staying there with a warmth that gently crept. Her own grip was watery, and still cold from the bleak night air.

 _I could let my hands drown in yours_ , she thought.

How tempting, this feeling, how beautiful they looked against each other.

Inadvertently, he was asking for all she had managed to hold together of herself. Everything was coming to an end, when this had never even had a beginning. She remembered staring at his lips, as they tried to reason. His words were filled with rationality, but his heavy tone bit with grief. She struggled now to remember the exact cadence of his voice, longing for a reminder. The depth of it filled her with shivers.

He said things like “ _regret,”_ stung with words like “ _never”_.

Sansa looked where his large hand had caught her wrist, to gruffly keep her from touching him. She’d leaned in to that endless gap between them, her hope suddenly in tiny breaths and, truth be told, relying on the wine she’d had earlier. The last glimmer of her courage drowned somewhere in his ghostly eyes.

It was a risk; it was the ultimate exposure. But despite the hostile blocks Sandor Clegane made, Sansa tore through.

 _I let you tear me open that night,_ she remembered, eyes blinking sore without sleep, _I let you fondle my fear, and tug on my sadness._

What she felt for The Hound – for _Sandor_ \- was so incredibly raw. Sansa realized with every bit of herself she was handing over, she was receiving a piece of him in return. Every layer of her wolf’s coat she shed, he dropped a bit of armor, breaking the barrier of a growling Hound. She held his unease close. A sob hitched in Sansa’s breath as she recalled reaching up to brush his hair from his scars, shedding him of the hesitation he so often wore.

_I let my hands drown in yours and you didn’t let go._

She rolled in her bed, towards the window. A desolate whisper of sunlight was peering through distant fog. Sansa clutched the white cloak she’d wrapped herself in a bit closer. There was something else of hers he took that night, something that’d began to unravel from her like a thin and unnoticed thread. As he rode away before the sun, he was keeping it warm, feeding it, letting it grow somewhere with him.

Sansa would only make this discovery much, much later.

Almost a month had past since they last received word.   
Brienne did not make conversation with her anymore. After they’d heard from the ships, Sansa’s council talked of The Kingslayer’s disappearance, but she had first seen it on the Tarth’s face. They were more alike than the knight knew, hardened by love instead of caressed by it. Sometimes Sansa wished to say something comforting to the woman, but always felt her own grief choking her.

The town seemed to stir with anxious whispers. Looks of anticipation peered at the Stark when she left council meetings to walk to the Godswood. Those who remained – the elderly, the mothers, the children – would see the red hair, the black coat, and wonder what she knew of their soldiers. She was more gaunt in weeks past, and her skin was like the snow. There was a Stark in Winterfell, even if she was a shell. Even if she was a ghost.

The nights were the hardest. In some, she twisted with sweat on her brow until dawn approached. In others, Sansa woke shaking from the dream that plagued her for years. His last kiss lingered painfully into her waking, like a mouthful of thorns. She’d feel guilty waking with that tattered white cloak wrapped around her sometimes. The weight of his loss made her wish to throw it in her fireplace. It also kept her digging the fabric from a chest every night, sorry she’d ever thought such a thing at all.  
She now understood the way Sandor had looked away in that defining moment, on top of her naked frame. Despite what she wanted, and her choice, he had already made his own. Was there a window in time they could have truly been together? Or, like ships in the night, was that it? Sansa wouldn’t doubt it. There had never been room for happiness in her life before, and perhaps Sandor Clegane was no exception.

Wearing heavy circles under her eyes, the Lady of Winterfell strode through gentle morning light in the lichyard. Caws of blackbirds chattered darkly from the tall stone corners. The snow beneath her hurried steps crunched, wet and melting.  
Looking down on her were the gargoyles of the First Keep, the decrepit carved monsters she’d feared as a girl. Past the headstones sat the cold ironwood door, darkened with age. The damp narrow passage waited behind, and she entered. The torches within were already lit, and Sansa knew she had guessed right.   
The slanted tunnel opened with an archway, expanding into the first level of the crypt. Past many figures far on the left, a chair with wheels was parked before one of the statues. As Sansa’s pace echoed, he did not stir. It was not long before the siblings both stood in the eternal gaze of their father. Sansa held her breath, looking into Lord Eddard’s stone eyes. It would always pain her to see his likeliness. Any memory of her life as his child was a thousand years away.

“Bran,” her head turned, and she lifted something in her grip, “there’s been a letter.”

“I know.” He said softly, still fixated on the statue.

Sansa had been shaking when the guards brought it to her earlier. Everyone waited in suspense as she peeled open the seal, her face losing its color. Then, with a new adrenaline propelling her, she wordlessly went to find her brother.

Of course he knew, though. The young man who sat so calmly before her was not entirely Bran anymore. She wanted to repeat the words on the parchment, just to hear them herself.

_They have Jon. The Queen is dead. The city is in ruin._

But it was clear he already knew those, too.

“We must leave for King’s Landing,” she stated instead. “Can you be ready to do so today?”

Bran bowed his head slowly, “Yes.”

Sansa nodded, clutching the pages in her gloves. A moment passed, and she glanced up to the face of her father. Then, she turned to leave.

“Sansa.” When she looked back, Bran was staring directly into her eyes, “He is there.”

Her mouth fell slightly open as a chill ran down her spine. She searched the face of her brother, but felt he was not the one talking to her. A shaky breath escaped her, and she turned from his boundless eyes. Exiting the crypt, she felt dazed when the light of day struck her.

_He is there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So happy to finally turn this small portion of the fic out! I’ve always liked the idea of Bran/The Three-Eyed Raven using his abilities for good in some small, unseen way. Hopefully there is still interest in where this is headed. I’ve still got a few chapters planned.  
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t a monster, he was a cornered dog. In his fear, he went for just one thing before leaving.
> 
> He went for Sansa.

On the fifth night of passage, Sansa had a dream.

The summer sun was erupting in blades of light through a cover of trees. When the wind blew, it was warm and kind against her skin. She found herself standing barefoot in an unfamiliar forest. A creek babbled before her, and she listened carefully as it whispered something over and over again. The water below was clear – until it wasn’t.  
A spiraling ribbon of red seeped into the stream at her feet, spreading quickly. It was then she heard the labored breaths, a heaving sound behind her. Turning slowly, she saw it: a great black wolf looming with a wide stance in the center of the creek bed. The big dark eyes were staring right at her from a lowered head. Sansa felt ice run down her spine at the sight, freezing in place. A macabre gash separated the fur in the beast’s center, blood trilling from the wound right into the flow of the stream.

 _You’re hurt!_ She called out to creature, to the sigil of her House. Her voice was an echo.

The animal barred sharp teeth, snarling in response. Sansa dropped into the cold creek, the red staining the skirts of her white dress. As she began to advance, water wading at her shins, the wolf moved away, stumbling with splashes. Suddenly it got it’s footing, and leaped with a pained grunt from the water into the woods.

_Wait!_

It was quickly invisible in the impossibly dark thicket of trees, though she could hear its wincing. Sansa was left with her mouth agape, knee deep in the crimson pool of blood.

* * *

The journey was full of tension. Northern noblemen were not known for expressing opinion, but Sansa knew there was disapproval in leaving Winterfell. Occasionally, she’d catch the tail end of a whispered campfire exchange, filed with wary. Nothing seemed to bother Bran in this way, but he was not the same. He spent most of his time alone, eyes always on the horizon. The brother she once knew felt like a distant memory.

Over the days, the venture south led to sun. The snow became sludge, and the furs were packed away. The smell of warmed earth was not long after that, and the chatter of birds became a constant.

When they passed through a small river village, a gaggle of fishermen caught sight of Sansa in her cloak and stopped. As the Northerners continued past on horse, an exclaim could be heard in excited conversation behind.

“ _Tully eyes!”_

For the rest of that day, through the hills, she thought only of her mother.

It was the eve of the eleventh day, and the hired geographer informed the Starks that they would arrive at Kings Landing toward the end of the morrow. All of the snow was gone, an indicator of how far they’d traveled. When Sansa closed her eyes, she pictured it, thinking herself in the Godswood. Anytime a cold wind swept through the roads, she savored it. After all these years, her childhood desperation to leave felt so wrong. There was nothing more she wanted than to be home.

When she slept, she was in the summer forest again.

She wore a wet gown, pinkish in blood, had bare feet dragged through dirt. Dark clouds brewed in the sky, the wind violent and warm through the trees as she ran. She chased the sound that pained her, the one that pierced her chest when it bellowed from the depths of the thicket. It was unlike anything she’d heard before. It was filled with a grievance Sansa didn’t know. It wasn’t the noise of women crying in the barricades of Blackwater Bay, it was not the gurgle of death that wedding day poison caused. It was not the fleshy wet screams of a man being torn apart by his own pets. This was something else. The echoes were like fingers curling at her heart, then shaking vigorously. Her hair, loose and wild, tangled in the slaps of wind as she ran, hands clutching the bloody skirts. Thumping on the damp ground, the rocks and twigs prodding barely registered as she tore through the darkening wood.

At last, a clearing.   
A shadow twice her size sprawled in the middle of the tall grass. Sansa stopped at the edge, her breath rising and falling rapidly. Leaves flung from the trees in the torrent of the oncoming storm, falling like snow into the space. She could see his ragged breathing, hitching on the inhale. He saw her, and his eyes were grey now. The beast’s brow lowered, slanting the wild gaze, and the attempt at a bark became a wince. The wound was getting the worst of it.

 _“Please,”_ she whispered, her voice still sounding as though it came from beneath a river.

Sansa advanced slowly, and the creature bared bloody teeth at her.

_Do you think this would be pretty, girl?_

When she kneeled by his side, the rain began in turrets down into the grass. A shaking hand reached for the fur, more slick than she remembered. The ears were tall, but not wide, and the snout was shorter somehow. The curled paws of the beast did not have claws, but simply nails. As she touched the warm neck of the growling creature, her eyes filled with tears. The familiar eyes looked to hers. It was not a wolf.

It was a dog.

* * *

When Kings Landing came into view, the rain had steadied. Thunder cracked in the nearby sea, and traveled for ages over the vast emptiness. Although the sky had greyed, the smog from the former dragonfires could still be seen above the caved city walls. A darkness loomed.   
The gathering of Northerners fell silent at the sight ahead, stopping at the hilltop to look.   
The sight of disarray had been anticipated, but not to this extent. Nothing could prepare them for seeing the piles of blackened brick, smelling the burnt ash, and viewing a former kingdom in shambles. Sansa did not have fond memories of this place, but it looked like somewhere else entirely now. She wondered how much of that was destruction, and how much of that was purely time on her end.   
Sansa did not realize she’d been holding any hope left for Sandor until she felt it drop from her stomach now. At the Blackwater Bay, Stannis has used wildfire to attack. Sandor had seemed so angry, so frightening to her back then, but he jumped every time the acidic flames burst out her window. He wasn’t a monster, he was a cornered dog. In his fear, he went for just one thing before leaving.

He went for Sansa.

“…Lady Sansa?” Atop a steed close by, Brienne was looking to her for an answer. The Stark blinked, and realized all faces were on her at the moment.

“Forgive me,” her voice was low against the rain, “I did not hear?”

“Shall we enter the city, my Lady?”

Down at the crumbled gates, armed Unsullied stood guard. Their queen was dead, and yet they held the entrance firmly. Lightning flashed from the swelling sky. Sansa looked back to her brother, perched upon a guided horse. Bran gave her a deep nod.

“Yes,” she was louder now, “let them know the North has come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The namesake of the story is buried somewhere in this short chapter. Fleshing out the idea of meaningful dreams was really challenging and interesting to do.  
> I’m really excited to get to the next stage of this in the upcoming chapter! I hope y’all are ready for some long heartbroken reunions.  
> As always, thank you for reading!


	7. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t that she’d forgotten this, but being here now made her think about it differently. Sansa remembered his beard grazing her neck as he’d released her safely. 
> 
> Did he feel it then, too?

The silence of waiting was heavier than the rain.

When the messenger returned, Sansa recognized a voice before she could make out the figures.

“These are the leaders of the North we have called upon! Aye, let them pass at once.”

Davos Seaworth was waving for the Unsullied to step aside, allowing a path to clear for the tired group. The guards did so, but in a stiff manner. Their spears were still carefully gripped.

“My Lady Sansa, Lord Brandon,” the Ser greeted, bowing his head. “Your horses can be taken to the stable. Let me lead you to the corridors.” He motioned for the soldiers behind him – a ragtag group of young men from the Iron Islands – to see to their steeds and baggage. As one helped Sansa dismount, she saw how expressionless he was. Even in the rain, the faces of the men were blank. She wondered what haunted them - wondered what they had seen happen here.

Evening was upon them, and there was no sunset. The only indication was in the grey skies beginning to blacken. The air was thick with soot, and the smell of smoke still permeated in the wet winds. Mud caked their boots as they were led to shelter in a portion of the castle that remained intact. It was getting too dark to properly see the surroundings, but the travelers were still stunned to silence. The path was pale with ash, even in the rain. It looked like snow, but certainly didn’t feel like it. The shapes on the streets around them were strange and uncertain, like the furniture of a familiar room in the middle of the night. Sansa could make out what had once been an outdoor market, and perhaps the tables of an inn. The way great gaps shot through the land was completely unnerving. Everything melded together here.

She remembered once, running for her life in these streets. They were very narrow then, and crowded. The men had chased her to a small alley, and she saw the knife, she felt their clammy fingers. But it had all stopped, and their guttural deaths were but a flash before a large shadow loomed above her. Sansa was taken back to his panting breath, the way his hair hung, the clanking of his armor when he reached his hand for hers. She was in that moment again, feeling him sweep her up with an arm tight around her waist, a bloody sword in hand. Tears had still been on her cheeks, but the warmth of his body soothed her.

It wasn’t that she’d forgotten this, but being here now made her think about it differently. Sansa remembered his beard grazing her neck as he’d released her safely.

_Did he feel it then, too?_

The light of torches let them know they’d arrived.

“Apologies. We are using rooms from the court maids’ chambers. They were the least touched, below ground.” Davos explained, his voice echoing in the dark hall.

“The kitchen is up ahead, our common area for now.”

The hall opened up to a room with no windows, only small slits where the brick walls met the ceiling. The rain whispered from the openings above. A large table sat in the center of the room, and a fire was burning weakly in the hearth to the left. Chairs were strewn about the space, more for leisure than purpose. Candles lit the kitchen sparsely, as of everyone was still quite cautious of fire. Sansa blinked, adjusting to the dim surroundings.

“Cousin!” A cracking voice greeted her as the figures around came to view. A tall pale man, dressed in ornate silver and blue velvets grinned down at her. Sansa’s face turned from confusion to displeasure.

“Robyn,” she couldn’t think of anything she had to say to him. It had been quite a while, and her relative looked dramatically different from the sickly child she remembered. A very large shadow loomed a few feet behind the Arryn, and Sansa felt her heart skip a beat before realizing it was Yohn Royce. The hardened old Lord had been training her cousin for years now. His height and frame had made her think of someone else, though.

“I am Lord of the Eyrie now,” Robyn leaned in to say this, nodding proudly, as if it was news Sansa was unaware of.

“Yes,” she responded flatly, eyes scanning behind him at the people gathered “and it is good you are here. Now, I am sorry, we have traveled a long way and – “

“Well!” Another voice cut Sansa off, and she watched as Edmure Tully raised from a chair, a goblet of wine in hand. “If it isn’t all of my nieces and nephews! A strange time for a family reunion.”

Bran had wheeled to the fireplace at some point, Sansa realized. He sat away from them, presumably looking to the dancing flames. Brienne kept her back to the wall, circles visible under her eyes. Like the patient knight she was, she waited for instruction.

“Actually, uncle,” Sansa started as the Tully took a sip of his drink, “it is _not_ all of your nieces and nephews. My sister is here somewhere. Arya?”

The Lord of Riverrun frowned, his brow knitting as he pondered her question. Robyn crossed his arms, suddenly quiet.

“She’s outside.”

Sansa turned to see a young man leaning in the doorway. She recognized the Baratheon heir by his chiseled face and short hair. His words were said honestly, but with a tinge of bitterness. Bran was looking at him too, she realized. Her and her brother met eyes for a moment, and then she left her awkward family circle to speak to Gendry in the shadows.

“Where?” Sansa lowered her voice.

He looked at his feet for a moment. Sansa knew her sister had rejected his proposal of marriage. She also knew this was the true son of Robert Baratheon. They’d never spoken one on one before. She wondered what it would have been like, all those years ago, if it was Gendry and not Joffrey.

_He would have still hated him._

She quickly packed her thought away, hiding it like the ivory cloak that was rolled tight in her garment bags.

“That tunnel connecting to the stables,” he motioned with his head away from the room, down the dark hall ahead. “Passed her earlier.”

Sansa let go of a heavy breath. She knew her sister was here, but to have someone confirm it was somehow more validating. At least _she_ was alive.

“Thank you,” she looked at him, the proper Lord of Storm’s End, with a small gratitude and then walked back into the kitchen. Brienne lifted herself from the bricks as Sansa approached.

“My Lady.”

“Brienne,” Sansa looked to her with empathy. Jaime was no longer here, after all. Perhaps _sympathy_ was the better word. She had also lost someone – was cursed to, long ago. “Please let them show you to your room. I will be fine.”

Clearly worn, the knight spoke quietly, “You do not wish an escort to your room, Lady Stark?”

“No, you are free of your duties. Please rest,” she insisted, and Brienne gave her a deep nod as Sansa turned to exit past the hall Gendry instructed. Brienne watched carefully – as did Bran.

The damp bricks still smelled of soot and dirt. The way was poorly lit, but Sansa could see a break in the structure ahead. The tunnel opened to the outside, and the cool air was thick with rain. It was an outdoor underpass held up by large columns all the way to the stables. Down some of the way, she could see her leaning on one of the columns, facing out to the city ruins.

“Arya!”

The nimble girl sprung from her spot and ran to meet Sansa halfway. They embraced tightly, for what felt like the first time in years.

“You’re finally here,” Arya gave a quick smile. “Where is Bran?”

“He’s inside,” Sansa motioned behind her. She gave the space a quick scan before asking, “Where are they keeping Jon?”

Her sister let out a sigh, “He’s in what’s left of the dungeons, but the Unsullied guard it day and night. They’re going to bring him to the meeting tomorrow. Tyrion, too.”

Sansa nodded. At least Jon was not entirely alone for now. Of everyone asked to participate on the council, she was sure something reasonable could be worked out. They had a great responsibility now. Perhaps being here was the only way to move forward.

_Perhaps it’s the only way to grieve._

“Arya…” Sansa looked down at her hands. She’d thought about this conversation for quite some time now. “When you left – did you find him?”

The younger Stark nodded slowly, “Not ‘till I was nearly here. But yes.”

“Did he…” Sansa paused. It was hard to talk about this aloud. Her voice wavered, and she was unable to stop it. “Did he say anything? Did he tell you why?”

When Sansa looked back up, her sister’s eyes were fixed past her gaze, over her shoulder.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Sansa’s chest burned with the terrible leap her heart gave. She spun around, unable to breathe. Right outside the channel, in the dark of the night and the rainfall, stood Sandor Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me a while to figure out, and I appreciate the patience! I don’t have a proofreader, so any mistakes throughout everything are definitely my own. Thank you for continuing to read. <3


	8. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been three times Sansa thought she’d seen a ghost. But she didn’t once think it’d feel like this.

It was exactly three times Sansa had wondered what it would be like.

The first, as a child, when her older brothers played a trick on her in the family crypts. A flour-covered hand reached out behind a statue to grab her, and make her scream. Cackling laughter ensued.  
The second was the night after her father died. She’d stared at the chair in the corner of her room until sunrise. Delirious with grief and no sleep, she’d tricked her eyes into seeing his figure in that seat once or twice.   
The final was after releasing the Bolton dogs into the valley beyond Winterfell, their stomachs full. She felt a chill on her neck when she turned to leave – a prick of fear that she’d see someone unwelcome when she looked back.  
It had been three times Sansa thought she’d seen a ghost. But she didn’t once think it’d feel like this.

A few tiptoes backward, a fast swivel, and Arya was gone. Sansa knew this, but still her eyes hadn’t left the wild sight before her – _the ghost._

The storm had turned into a hazy misting, drizzling lazily as it lost momentum over King’s Landing. A faint clank could be heard as water hit the metal fixtures over his boots. The rest of his outfit was cloth, darkened with rain. His face was the same: hard, expressionless, weary of life. The humidity created untamed waves in the hair that clung to his scars.

It wasn’t frightening, the sight. It didn’t worry her. But why did it _hurt_ so much?  
Her throat was full of thorns, suddenly. Only the patter of raindrops filled the vast silence. The daughter of Winterfell, tired, hair free of restraints, swallowed hard.

“You left.”

The words were vehement, and her lip quivered, but her gaze remained sharp.  
Sandor stared back at her with solemn eyes and the Stark felt them pierce her, even in the flickering light of torches.

“You knew I had to.”

The depth of his tone radiated in her chest, and she treasured the cadence of his voice after all this time – even if she was angry, even if she was hurt. Her hands squeezed into fists when The Hound came closer, stepping under the cover of the passage. Water slicked his hair and made his beard dewy. Sansa felt panic rising as he drew near. She noticed how he carried himself – it was with unease, a gentleness for his right side. The loose end of a stained bandage flittered beneath his tunic. Sandor shifted, trying to hide it.

“You’re hurt,” she said under her breath, more to herself than to him.

“Not really,” the corners of his mouth turned down in response. “Better than the bastard who thought he could stab me an’ live.”

Thunder rumbled from very far away. The storm was reminding them it had not left for certain just yet. In a passing gust of wind, Sansa’s hair swept off her shoulders, dancing like a red flame. Sandor’s eyes followed the movements, catching sight of her bare collarbones for the briefest moment.

She searched the large man’s face. “What of Gregor?”

“Gregor?” The Hound let out a single wry laugh, “Got smashed in the Red Keep by a fuckin’ dragon, didn’t he?” 

It did make sense that The Mountain would be a casualty in guarding Cersei. The Keep was all but shambles now. No man, regardless of strength, stood a chance against Drogon.

They were facing each other at opposite pillars in the covering. Sansa’s heart was still racing. Something about this felt familiar, but she could not place it. It thrilled her to even look upon him – though when she did, the feeling turned to anguish.

Her memory did not do him justice. In the wavering torchlight she looked at his hard jaw and soft lips, in awe of the constant juxtaposition that was his attractiveness. His hair was longer than she recalled, dark and thick. If not for his scars, there surely would have been songs about his mystifying good looks. She imagined it for a moment: the gloomy handsome wanderer, the legend of a Keep heir who never smiled.

Sansa did not want that, though. It was this Sandor before her - the one branded with pain - who she knew… who she _wanted._

“You said there was only one thing that would make you happy,” her words felt jarring in the silence, “but now it’s over.”

What would be left, then? What life could be led after one momentary happiness? She felt torn about the words back then, and even more so now.

“Aye, Little Bird. It’s done.”

 _Little Bird.  
_Sansa pressed her lips together as a cauldron of emotions brewed inside her. Her stomach flipped at the sound of her pet name in his mouth. It excited her in some innate way. At the same time, woeful waves grew choppy in her chest. Realizing how his every word electrified her was torturous. It felt so messy, seeing him here. In all her dreams, she thought the chance to be together would bring her happiness. Sansa wished it would cure her grief.

It didn’t.

She shook her head, hands curled into fists.

“You - ” she felt the tears of frustration coming, “You do not get to call me that anymore.”

The Hound’s eyes widened – and then they narrowed. In one big stride, he was towering over her, so close that water dripped from his hair onto her collar. Sansa gasped, a breath caught in her chest.  
The thunder returned, a glare of lightning illuminating their faces for a flash. She tilted her chin up, meeting his callous frown with a serious stare. Tears reddened Sansa’s blue eyes, threatening to shatter past her lashes at any moment.

“Why do you come for me, _Sansa Stark?”_ Her name was bitter on his lips, but still it gave her shivers. She felt the rise of emotion all at once; the waves were about to crash. And then she shouted.

“I thought you were _dead!_ ” Her voice cracked, a hot tear escaping down her cheek. “I thought you _died,_ and I was too late to-”

“Too late to what? Too late to _save_ me?” He all but scoffed, “You really-”

“ _To tell you that I love you!”_ The words left her in an angry sputter before she knew she was going to say them.

Sandor’s face drained of color. In a split second, she was pinned by his body to the pillar behind her. One of his huge hands was flat to the stone, the other on her neck. His eyes lingered on her lips, fingers nearly caressing her cheek. The warmth of his skin seared her flesh with yearning. Sansa should have been frightened – alone with an enormous man pressing her to a wall, who was gripping the pulse along her throat – but she was not. Never had she felt more alive.

“I _should_ have died,” he snarled. “That was the fucking end, and you were free of this ugly burden.”

Sandor’s hand was shaking against her ivory nape. The Stark watched as he trembled. His hair brushed her cheek when he’d spat the words, and she was damp with his rainwater. Their faces were close enough that she could feel his heavy breath. A magnetism eroded the hot air between them, not unlike the second before their lips first met.

“The only burden I carry is knowing you are not with me,” she pleaded.

He paused, his expression becoming more calm. She wished she could brush the soaked hair from his eyes, but the feel of him touching her still was enough.

“A future queen does not need a pet,” he shook his head, eyes down.

“Sandor, I-” she’d grabbed for his hand on her collar and he tore it away, stepping back.

What was happening? This was all wrong. Sansa’s brow was knit together, and she was abruptly very cold.  
Suddenly, she saw it: The dark dog from her dream wounded at the middle, growling with teeth at her.

“Heard the new Dornish Prince’ll be here in the morning,” Sandor spoke bitingly, his gaze dark, hurt. “Perhaps he fancies wolves.”

With that The Hound turned his back on her, choosing the shadows and wetness of night instead of the passage. He was heading to the stables, presumably to his horse. She couldn’t make out his figure for very long.

Sansa wanted to slide down the column at her back, but couldn’t feel her legs. She felt distant from what had happened in the strangest way, like she’d been watching from somewhere else. Her hair was wild and wet now, and she was so, _so_ , tired. But she’d awakened something inside her she hadn’t know was there.   
All this time, through everything, every day and night. In her dreams, in her nightmares. He’d taken it with him, long ago.

She loved Sandor Clegane.

And he was gone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a DOOZY, y’all.  
> Initially, I thought they might want to make up here, but NOPE, definitely not...yet.  
> I’ve literally been listening to ASMR of thunderstorms while writing this. Can you tell I’m a Pride and Prejudice fan yet? Thanks as always. You can find my continued Sansan woes on alderaanplacesss at tumblr for fic mood boards, story memes, etc. if you like!


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